Cirque De Vie
by SarasimStark
Summary: There's a mystery surrounding the Circus Boheme which is currently wintering in Bayville. Performers talk about their lives and try to piece together what exactly happened.
1. Misha

My name is Mikhail Bogdanov. I was born on June 8, 1985 in Kiev, Ukraine. I can speak Russian and English fluently. I don't really have much of an accent because I've grown up around English speaking people. My mother, Irina, however speaks English with a rather thick accent.  
  
Does it bother me? Well not really. I suppose it would if I went to a normal school with normal kids but since I don't, I've just kind of accepted it as just one of those things.  
  
We tour around the country playing various venues. Sometimes we are in an arena, other times we're a mud show. A circus performer learns to roll with the punches and accept what has been given to him.  
  
I am one of the Russian acrobats in the Circus Boheme. Sonja and I are the youngest Russian acrobats. She's from St. Petersburg. We are flyers in the Russian bars and the banquine act.  
  
The Russian bar is a long flexible piece of wood a couple of inches across. Two porters hold the bar on their shoulders while the flyer stands on top of the bar. The porters launch the flyer and send him flying into the air. We do flips and twists before we land safely on the bar.  
  
The banquine act is different. It involves no props other than human agility. My favourite part is when Sergey and I are launched across the stage while Elena dives over us. We pass each other so closely that I can almost touch them.  
  
Yeah, we hurt afterwards. There's a saying among acrobats: If an acrobat wakes up and nothing hurts, chances are he's dead. Pain is just a part of our everyday lives because nothing we do is normal. It's not normal to be launched through the air and expected to land on a thin, wooden bar a couple of inches across. We walk on pins and needles to entertain the audience.  
  
I shouldn't expect you to understand these things. I gave up years ago trying to explain to outsiders why we do something, day after day, that causes so much pain. No one seems to understand why I sacrifice a normal life for something that'll only last until my late thirties tops.  
  
They just don't know what it means to fly. That's what my mom tells me and I guess it's right. When I do my trick, I am launched high into the air and for a moment, time stands still and I feel like I'm flying. Then I hit the ground and am forced back into reality. It's that insane high we acrobats live for.  
  
I'll tell you something my English and History teacher, Mr. Mischke, told me: Passions always seem strange to people who don't have them. After all, he says, there are people who can't balance a checkbook to save their life but can give the batting stats of anybody who's played in the World Series.  
  
Mr. Henrie, the director, always tells us to perform with everything we've got. Invest every tear, every ache, everything both beautiful and ugly about our world. Sometimes it's tiring being a performer because regardless of what personal trials we may be going through, we have to put them aside for the time being and go onstage and perform. I should be grateful I'm not a clown. Clowns seems to be the most tightly wound people and often before show time, they're the ones snapping under the strain. They're supposed to go onstage and make everyone laugh and they're bawling! Somehow everything works out and the performance goes splendidly.  
  
After every performance, our coach, Boris Semenov, goes through and criticizes our performance bit by bit. He's almost a stereotypical Russian, loud, quick-tempered, and always demanding nothing short of perfection. It's very rare one ever gets a compliment from him. Sonja and I sometimes mock his thick accent. We whisper to each other, "Vhere ees moose and squirrel?" trying to see how outrageous we can make our accent.  
  
After criticism, we fight over who gets the first massage. It's not only a fight between the Russians, but also a fight between the Chinese and American performers. Usually Mr. Henrie comes and breaks it up.  
  
My mother is the masseuse; she used to be an acrobat until she grew too old. It's rare that a female acrobat's career lasts beyond her early thirties. Once her acrobatic career fizzled, she learned how to give massages and that's how she earns her living.  
  
Life here isn't too different from regular kids. We attend school from 10:30 to 4:30 or 10:30 to 2:30 depending on the number of shows we have in the evening. In between we practice. Meals are served at 8:30, noon, and six every day. Our six' o'clock is usually our lightest because that's around performance time and during a performance, we don't want our bodies to weighed down by a huge meal.  
  
Mondays, we are free to explore around the city and just hang out like normal kids. I hang with a couple of the Chinese performers. People may marvel about how people from so many different parts of the world can coexist so peacefully but it's just life here. When you're crammed in such a tiny area together, you have no choice but to tolerate the people you're crammed with. 


	2. Hotdogs and Ramen Noodles

My name is Jiang Lian. I am fifteen years old. I was born December 5, 1986 in Chongqing, China in the Sichuan Province. Please let take this moment to apologize, my English is not that good; I still have a trace of an accent. My little sister speaks English better than I.  
  
I first came to America when I was five. My family came here looking to join one of the American circuses. We joined several, drifting around like gypsies before finally settling with the Circus Boheme when I was eight.  
  
I think my parents got the biggest culture shock when they came to America. They knew it was going to be different but until you are plopped down in a place you've only read or watched movies about, I don't think you realize how different. I adjusted a bit more quickly because I was a child and I didn't have much tying me back to the old country. My little sister, Jiang Sun-Yi, behaves more like an American than a Chinese. She has no memories of China; she was two when she came to America.  
  
In China, we list our last names first and our first names last. So I suppose my name here would be Lian Jiang and my sister's, Sun-Yi Jiang. Americans are a little less formal than us Chinese. When asked our names, we normally say, "Ms. Jiang," our something along those lines whereas the Americans say, "Bob."  
  
Papa still has us practice calligraphy and Mom feeds us Chinese food. Real Chinese food, not the kind served at restaurants in America. We call that American food in China. They believe in a certain amount of tradition. My little sister is already beginning to butt heads with Mom and Dad. She likes pizza, not rice, and prefers to write in English, not Mandarin Chinese. Sometimes they argue for hours over these things. I am grateful that she loves the circus as much as they do.  
  
I perform in the shoulder pole wire act and the Chinese poles. I also do plate spinning. I can do the teeterboard halfway decent and I am working on learning hoop diving. Because Chinese acrobatics is the building block for nearly every circus art, all the Chinese acrobats feel we have a certain responsibility to make sure we pay our proper respects to arts created thousands of years ago. Peasants and middle-class people created most of these acts. Hoop diving was originally done by farmers who would take their hoop-shaped farming tools and dare one another to dive through them. If you could dive through seven hoops stacked on top of each other (a height of seven feet), then you were considered supremely skilled. Likewise, a merchant selling pottery might do a few tricks to attract customers.  
  
The shoulder pole wire act is done using a long pole with a wire on top of it. An acrobat supports the pole while an artist does tricks on the wire on top. I'm the artist who walks the wire. My partner, Li Hao, supports the pole on his shoulder. Sometimes when I annoy him he jokes about dropping the pole. He is seventeen and as my French teacher would put it, Il est tres beau. I would ask him out, but my parents say, "No dating until I am eighteen." They want me to focus first and foremost on my art.  
  
Chinese poles are a bit different. The Chinese pole is simply a long, vertical pole planted in the ground. Me and several other artists, shimmy up them like we're lizards and leap from one pole to the next. My favourite trick is when I leap and catch the pole with my legs so I am hanging upside down. It is a tough trick that always makes my heart skip a beat.  
  
My sister performs the single hand balancing and plate spinning. She is currently working on learning the teeterboard.  
  
Her single hand-balancing act is one of the most interesting acts in the show. She balances on a single post on one hand. She manages to be so graceful and so strong at the same time, which is something I have trouble with. Despite how stubborn she is, I think she could go far in life.  
  
Life here is rough, but I can't imagine myself anywhere else. 


	3. L'Ange De Ciel

Greetings, young travelers, I'm glad to you stopped by. L'Ange de Ciel receives very few visitors these days. My name is Simone. How old am I? Who knows? My dear papa always told me, "A truly great artist never reveals her secrets." I'll tell you a few things. I was born in Quebec and am the daughter of Chaunce and Aleah Beauvais. My father was a third-generation circus performer: a Washington Trapeze performer. My mother was a beautiful caramel-skinned contortionist from India. I'm not sure why she left India; maybe it was idleness or boredom. All of us circus performers seem to be afflicted with an incurable case of wanderlust. Mama joined the circus were she met Papa. Papa fell madly in love with her and they married three months after they met. Two years later, she died giving birth to me. I know it seems strange for a woman in this modern day and age to die in childbirth but weirder things have happened. Mama's death broke my papa's heart. He left Canada, taking me with him, and joined the Circus Boheme. He kept only one picture of his beloved; a picture of her doing a triple fold during a performance. Papa schooled me in the trapeze until he died, then I went to Canada and studied with Carlos Dauvergne until I could do all that I can now. I was built to be an aerial artist. My long legs, sleek and muscular from years of training, help make movements truly beautiful. Carlos says I have a natural grace when it comes to the air and that I seem more comfortable in the sky than I do on land. I am advertised on the posters as L'ange de Ciel: the Angel of the Sky. My specialties are the static trapeze and the aerial hoop but I can also perform the Washington Trapeze and the Spanish web. I am also working on learning the tissu with Carlos. He says with my long, lean body; I could truly make a spectacular artist. Unfortunately, I hear some whispers of discontent around here. I am called prima donna for my insistence upon a trailer of my own; most people, unless they have families, share a trailer. I hear them sneering as I apply my makeup and as the costume maiden helps me put on my white costume. They snicker when I make specifications for lighting and scenery. I'll admit I am a bit picky but I just want to create an image for the audience to carry in their hearts forever. Papa told me that my most important task as a performer is to create an image so beautiful and achingly precise that the audience, for a moment, becomes lost in a strange world. Mr. Henrie is pretty nice. I'll suggest an idea and he'll work with me to make it happen. Now don't get me wrong, that doesn't mean I always get what I want; you should really stop listening to the flying trapeze troupe. For some reason, they hate me most of all. I don't know what I've done to earn their ire; I try to push it out of my head. After all there's a whole audience of people waiting to see L'Ange de Ciel. 


	4. Review By The San Francisco Examiner

News clipping found in Simone's scrapbook  
  
  
  
San Francisco Examiner 6/26/2001  
  
The Circus Boheme is a throwback to the early days of the circus where one might have dozens of circuses touring the country, instead of just the giants Ringling Bros. and Cirque Du Soleil. It consists of a tent and various other equipment, which they spread over whatever patch of dirt they can find. Despite limitations in size, they still manage to find room to rig up a flying trapeze act. The circus acts have a vaudevillian feel to them. The performers interact constantly with the audience, giving the show warmth sometimes lacking in other shows. Clowns move apparatus on and off stage and perform various short skits throughout the show. Matsya Singh, a pint-sized clown from India, had the audiences in stitches in as he played pirates and made his crew walk the plank and later tried to woo the young hand balancer (Sun-Yi Jiang) whose heart unfortunately belongs to the strong man. The acrobats perform astonishing displays of strength, agility, and balance. A wirewalker somersaults across a thin wire. Russian bar performers do mid-air twists that would make Evil Knievel gasp, before landing on thin wooden bars that bend very far when they land. The single hand-balancing act in which Sun-Yi Jiang rotates and balances on a single post is truly a marvel. Sun-Yi displays the strength of a body- builder and the flexibility of a contortionist as she rotates on her post. During one part of the act, she straightens herself, allows one leg to drift, then bounces to the other hand. Simone Beauvais, otherwise known as the Angel of the Sky, performs the last act before intermission. When the stage darkens and lanterns lower from the ceiling, the audience knows something wonderful is about to happen. A trapeze bar lowers from the ceiling. A beautiful vision in white appears, mounts the trapeze, and begins her act. Ms. Beauvais truly lives up to her name as Angel of the Sky in this act, doing flips and dives that would make Sir Isaac Newton reconsider his theory of gravity. The Circus Boheme has struggled to survive ever since its conception in 1978 by a group of street hippies. In the wake of the September 11 disaster, attendance has gone up, which could possibly help the circus gain an audience outside its usual hippie crowd. Prices for this show are eleven dollars for adults, nine dollars for children. Souvenir stands sell pictures and figures of the performers. Concessions include popcorn and cotton candy. 


	5. Red Hot China Doll

My name is Sun-Yi Jiang. I am thirteen years old. I like bubblegum, peanut butter, and rock'n'roll. I love martial arts films-Jackie Chan is awesome-but I hate romantic comedies. I find myself screaming at the screen, "Hook up already!" Maybe this is the reason why my sister doesn't like to go to movies with me. I perform in the single hand balancing and plate-spinning acts. I can also juggle, walk on stilts, and I am learning the teeterboard. I started studying acrobats when I was two. I first appeared on stage when I was seven. My act was folding myself into a barrel. I mostly played the role of the miniature clown, you know kind of like Matsya. My father is the coach for the Chinese Acrobats and my mother is the costume maiden. Both are incredibly strict about, well, everything. I'm not allowed to date or wear makeup (except for performances) and I have to keep my hair long. What I'd really like to do is cut it real short, streak it purple, then spike it. My favourite colours are purple, red, and black. Most of my wardrobe consists of these colours. I often sneak out wearing a black dress, a long hooded red coat, purple prom gloves, my combat boats with the purple shoestring laces, and lipstick so bright, fire engines use it as a model. My parents would flip. I know what you're thinking: I'm not the typical Chinese girl. From my performances in which I'm a light, dainty china doll, you'd think I was but I'm not. I love to talk, I can yell pretty loud if challenged, and I have a stubborn streak a mile wide. People have the stereotype that an Asian girl is shy and retiring; I am the total opposite of that. I love eighties rocker chicks like Siouxsie Sioux, Lita Ford, and Pat Benatar. If you're wondering what life is like for a circus kid like me, it's not too different from yours. We go to school, we practice, and in our free moments just hang out. I usually hang with Lakshmi-she's the closest to my age-though she usually has to bring along her cousin, Matsya. He's pretty cool for a kid, though. My sister hangs with some of the older kids including her precious Li Hao. Ugh, the way she gets all moony-eyed over him makes my stomach churn. Why can't she just ask him out and stop following him around like a puppy dog? Oh yeah, Mom and Dad forbid dating. They have incredibly high standards for both of us. They push us to go up and beyond what is expected. If one of us gets a B, they'll ask why it isn't an A. If we complain about their standards, they'll give us the "this is America, Land of Opportunity," lecture. If given a choice between the lecture and a two-by-four to the head, bring on the board! Now don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't what to please my parents, it's just that I want to find my own place in the world. I don't know if I'll be with the circus forever, maybe I'll become a fashion designer. Sky's limit, you know. 


	6. A Little Bit of Romance

Disclaimer: The X-Men characters belong to Marvel comics. And in case you were wondering, InterNutter, here it is. Sorry about the past three chapters; the site screwed up the format when I uploaded them for some apparent reason.  
  
Hi it's Lian again. I'm sorry to make a pest of myself, but I need someone to talk to. I am very frightened and no one will tell me anything. I did hear a little bit, thanks to Sun-Yi's snooping. Instant she heard whispers of discontent; she had to know about it. She drives me crazy sometimes but for once I am thankful for her snooping. Course Mama found out about it. After punishing Sun-Yi, she decided it'd probably be best to tell us. Apparently a woman disappeared, an outsider, not a circus person. I saw a picture of her. She was real pretty with brown skin and white hair. She looked kind of like "The Duchess." That's what everyone calls Simone. There have been people of all shapes and sizes crawling all over every inch of the hippodrome (Mr. Mischke taught me that word.) Mr. Henrie and everyone else have been scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off. They've cancelled the shows for the next few days, which is a good thing for I haven't been able to concentrate. Thank good for my harness otherwise I would have hit the ground pretty hard. Hao laughed at me when I slipped doing one of my simpler tricks. Mom has told us if anyone asks us any questions, not to answer. She says they might use what we say against us. Thank god they haven't asked any of us performers. I heard that they throw you in jail if you answer wrong. They've been asking Mr. Henrie lots of questions. I see him running about looking terribly worried. I asked Matsya and Lakshmi (they're living with him) if they knew anything, but they couldn't tell me anything. After I messed up some simple tricks, stuff so simple even a three-year- old could do them, Hao asked me to climb down from the pole. He set it on the ground to make it easier. He said because of the hullabaloo going on that I was probably too distracted to get anything done. After I had climbed down and unfastened my harness, he offered to take me out for a soda. I said, "Yes." I resisted the urge to dance around the ring, shouting, "Yes," over and over again. We slipped out the back and went to a local place, a diner I think. After awhile of touring, all places start to look the same. Hao ordered us some drinks and we had a good long chat about our professions. Because he was older, he gave me some tips for the Chinese poles. He came to the United States at the age of seven so his accent is even thicker than mine. Truth be told, my memories of China are more faded images than anything else so I asked him what he remembered. Unfortunately he couldn't remember much either. I think memory begins at the age of seven. After a bit, I decided to sit back and listen to some of the conversations going on a couple tables down. For some reason, Americans are a lot more outspoken in restaurants than they ever are at home. The stuff I hear could make terrific soap operas! Finally I asked Hao if he knew more about the missing woman. He told me her name's Ororo Munroe. That's quite a peculiar name; I wonder what country she's from? Wherever it is, I hope they find her. After we finished our sodas, we paid our bill, and left. We talked some more about this Ororo Munroe. Apparently there have been some strange rumours flying around. Apparently someone found her purse abandoned not to far from the tent, so they blame us. I remember telling him, "That's silly." He didn't say a word but smiled in agreement. Then before we got back, he kissed me! I'm serious; he kissed me right on the cheek. It wasn't like in the movies where they shared tongues but it felt just as special! I practically floated back to the trailer where Mama was waiting with dinner. She scolded me for being late and took a portion out of my allowance, but I didn't care. Hao loved me and that was enough for me. 


	7. The Angel Speaks

I'm hiding, I'm hiding, and no one knows where.  
  
I am big and small  
  
I am strong as an ox,  
  
Yet weak as a kitten.  
  
I am the picture of calm  
  
Yet I am TERRIFIED!!  
  
It's not that good is it? Oh well I wasn't trying to be Dickinson or Coleridge; I've just been scribbling phrases that come to mind onto a legal pad.  
  
My hands have been twitching for hours; I haven't felt this unhinged since Papa died. When he died, it felt like the sky had fallen on my head; I thought for certain I would soon join him. My entire body was quivering like someone lost in the Artic without a coat and my heart was thumping so loud I couldn't hear anything else. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and die.  
  
Okay, I'll admit it since no one will ever know: I'm a serious control- freak and a hideous workaholic. I can't relax for one minute; even when I have some spare time I have to be doing something. I can't sit still. I keep my nose and ear to the grindstone and for some reason I can survive like that. Even my fellow performers are surprised by how many hours I put into practice.  
  
Unfortunately every now and then, I careen down a hill and get derailed. I remember one audition.I was pacing back and forth, my palms were sweating.my heart was thumping like a kettle drum.All of a sudden, the entire Earth seemed so Huge and I seemed so small; all the other people in line seemed as big as skyscrapers. I thought for certain that I was going to die.my clock had wound down. When the doors finally open, I froze. My trapeze was all rigged up, the judges sat at their table waiting, and I simply couldn't move. Finally I started crying. I started wailing and wailing and I couldn't stop. I was crying so bad I thought I would drown myself and everyone in the theater. I felt so naked and filthy and ashamed for being such an incredibly stupid baby that I froze even more. I stood in the center of the room bawling until someone escorted me out. He suggested I seek mental help.  
  
I didn't; I was afraid of ending up in prison. I went to my home in Quebec and spent several weeks hiding out, emerging only during the late hours to buy food.  
  
When I finally left my hiding place; I was a total wreck. I had wearing the same filthy coffee-stained t-shirt I had worn for the past week, I had dark circles under my eyes from crying so much, and despite a steady diet of coffee and ice cream, I had lost ten pounds so my clothes hung off me. You can't imagine how scared I was first time I took the trapeze bar in my hands.  
  
Kind of gives you another perspective on the Angel of the Sky. You never suspected I was such an anxiety-ridden buffoon. Well that's because I am one hell of a good actress. All circus performers are good actors. That's because in their performances, they not only have to do it right but they must make it look easy at the same time.  
  
Well I am a great actress. I am the perfect, graceful Barbie-doll with no problems whatsoever. I wouldn't know a problem if it walked up and bit me on the ass!  
  
Sorry I've been on edge since the invaders arrived. They been poking around everywhere; I've been in my trailer the entire time, praying that they don't ask me anything. I've been trying to keep up practice because Carlos says if one becomes too idle, the body begins to forget all it has been taught.  
  
If this anxiety spell finally proves to be the end, here are my specifications. I would like to be laid to rest next to my father in Canada and I want this memo pad burned. You will find what you are looking for in my scrapbook under my bed. 


	8. Mikhail

I've been thinking a lot about sanity recently. I wonder if even the most insane think they're perfectly normal? Oh well it probably doesn't matter. What does matter is someone has gone missing and one of us might have done it.  
  
It's really scary when you think about it. That a killer or a kidnapper may be the guy you chat with every day. Sonja and I used to watch America's Most Wanted and have nightmares for hours because of the way people could slaughter another person with no more care than I might crush an insect. I mean sure there are people who get on my nerves--sometimes Coach Semenov annoys me when he asks me to redo a trick for the umpteenth time or the Duchess when she starts firing off her specifications for the lighting of her act-but I don't think I could be so callous as to kill them.  
  
Sophomore year, Mr. Mischke had us read Lord of the Flies. That book gave me nightmares for weeks and still does. It's creepy they way Mr. Golding charts their downward spiral. It's even creepier when you think that us circus kids are living in almost the exact conditions necessary to recreate the book. We're cut off from people on the outside except performances and who knows maybe if it weren't for Mr. Henrie and all the other adults establishing a sense of conduct, we could degenerate into the savages in Mr. Golding's book.  
  
In between practices, Sonja and I have been discussing our theories on who could have done it. We've kind of ruled out anyone younger than us--no way a fourteen-year-old girl could abduct someone twice her size-but we've reached a dead end.  
  
We've also been talking about those strange people who've been hanging around. There's no way they're cops unless the academy's been accepting people at younger ages. Both Sonja and I have been wondering if they could be informants but if they are, they're sure incompetent ones. They've been coming right out and asking everybody.  
  
Our parents have told us not to say a word and none of us have. A circus performer is good at being quiet. One of them asked Sun-Yi if she knew anything and she responded in Chinese, "The blue boat ate the big mouse." Most of us have been faking not knowing English, which isn't too hard because most of us speak at least two languages fluently.  
  
I admit I do feel a little guilty about all this deception; if Sonja or Lian were missing, I'd hope that the people involved would be as helpful as possible. I asked my mom about this, but she couldn't give me much of an answer. She's been nervous and antsy ever since the police arrived. She's never been comfortable around the police. I think it's because she grew up in the Soviet Union. Though she escaped Stalin, she had relatives who weren't so lucky.  
  
I have wondered if maybe my mother did it. She had been acting so nervous lately. Right now I'm classifying that theory under Possible but Not Likely. Why would she abduct a woman whom she'd never met and is bigger and stronger than she is? Plus where would she hide her: our trailer's the size of a shoebox and is already being shared by Me, Her, Oleg, and Sergey (two performers in our act.)? 


	9. Flying Through the Air With the Greatest...

The air hung stagnant in the tent, thick with the scent of sweat and chalk. Stretched across most of the ring was a great net. Overhead, flyers swung back and forth on the great trapeze executing gravity-defying maneuvers before appearing in the catcher's arms.  
  
It was sheer magic, the way time seemed to stop while they were in the air. Common sense would tell you that they were probably only in air for a fraction of a second, but memory would forever freeze them in mid-flight.  
  
Though the flying trapeze was the most expensive act in the circus's show, it was one that couldn't be left out. Even if the patrons didn't enjoy the other acts, it was almost guaranteed that they would like the flying trapeze because it tapped into the urge to fly.  
  
The X-Men almost forgot their mission as they watched the performers rehearse. It was like they'd been put under a spell. When they'd finished up practice, Kurt approached one of the flyers, a young lady named Elspeth Jones . "Wow, that was amazing the way you did that triple somersault," Kurt said.  
  
"Hey thanks." she responded. "The triple somersault's always kind of scary because you can't see the catcher; you just have to trust that he's there." There was kind of a gleam in Elspeth's eyes, almost as though see was a kid trying to keep from blurting out the Secret Of the Universe. She was an impish little thing with bright copper hair.  
  
"How long have you been performing?" asked Kurt.  
  
" I don't know. I've been doing trapeze's long as I can remember," she muttered. To say Elspeth was curious was like saying Lizzie Borden needs to take an anger management course. These people had been snooping around for the past three days, making a mess of everything, causing Mr. Semenov to run out of swears in both English and Russian (He's working on learning French), and now all of a sudden one of those twerps is hanging around practice expressing an interest in our practice.  
  
Elspeth smiled; it was all she could think of to do at a time like this. Over the years, she had accumulated a whole closetful of smiles that she rummaged through from time to time. This one was her "Everything's-Fine-Now- Move-Along" smile.  
  
"So.uhh.I was wondering if I could take a spin on the trapeze?" Kurt stammered.  
  
Elspeth's composure broke and her smile turned into her "This-Yutz- is- Kidding-Right" smile. In her career there had been a few outsiders who'd expressed an interest in her art without being patronizing but none had ever made that request. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Sorry, forgot to explain. I used to be in the circus," Kurt responded.  
  
"Oh really," she said. This was a very nice change of pace. She rarely ever met fellow performers while on tour. "Well in that case, warm up then go talk to Archie. Make sure he knows whatever crazy trick you're going to pull."  
  
Kurt warmed up, concentrating on his rotator cuffs. After he'd sufficiently warmed up, he went and chatted with Archie. Archie had the typical build of a catcher: big, burly and some kind of tattoo on his bicep, in this case the name "Lulu."  
  
Kurt climbed the ladder than waited at the board. Archie swung back and forth, getting his body into the catcher's lock. Once he was secure, Kurt took the trapeze and began swinging back and forth. When he reached his apex, the Archie shouted, "Hep!" Kurt performed a simple layout, twisting his body through the air, before appearing in the arms of the catcher. He was surprised how easily the movements came back to him. Guess it really is like riding a bicycle; you never forget. Archie returned him to his post. He climbed down the ladder and was promptly greeted by his fellow X-Men.  
  
"Wow," Elspeth said, applauding, "you're talented."  
  
Stepping backstage was like falling down Lewis Carroll's rabbit hole. Props of all shapes and sizes lay scattered about; there were brushes and hair ties dumped everywhere. It was nearly in maybe an hour's time it would be show time so it was fairly crowded with performers stretching and discussing tricks with their coaches.  
  
"That's the Coach Semenov over there. He's the Russian Acrobatics coach," said Elspeth. "I wouldn't recommend talking to him; his grasp of English is tentative at best and he is not known for his good nature."  
  
She led them over to a little alcove where Sonja and Mikhail were practicing some of their hand-to-hand tosses. "I'd try chatting with them; probably be more likely to get info from 'em than any of the other Russians."  
  
Scott walked up to Mikhail. He was dressed for performance as was Sonja. "um.excuse me.I," Scott muttered.  
  
"Could you hold on a sec?" Mikhail interrupted. The X-Men watched as Sonja took hold on his head and moved herself into a one-handed handstand. When she was done, she simply leapt off. The X-Men were very much impressed and applauded.  
  
"So what did you need to talk to me 'bout?" he asked. Before the X-Men could respond, he answered, "Oh you want to ask me 'bout the same thing you've been asking Mr. Henrie?"  
  
The X-Men nodded. Mikhail clenched his fists and advanced closer to the X- Men. "Well I know nothing," he growled.  
  
Elspeth stepped in between the two parties. "Wow down tiger. They aren't accusing anyone yet. They were just wondering if we'd seen anything."  
  
Mikhail relaxed. " 'Fraid not much time to talk about anything right now; why don't you come by after the show. " He scratched out something on a piece of paper. "This should get you by the bouncer."  
  
"Thanks," Scott responded. The X-Men went and bought tickets for the evening program. 


	10. Captive

Where am I? It's the stupidest question in the world. Where am I? Who am I? I forget these days: It's easy to forget when you haven't heard it in so long. The nicest I've heard in awhile is "Bitch."  
  
I've no longer know how long I've been away. My mind stretches minutes into days, days into years. Three times a day, the door opens up and I am given food. It's not much, but to see light again, ah how good it feels! I suppose I could keep track of the intervals but I have nothing to keep track with.  
  
It is dark. Always dark. I can't tell if the sun's setting or rising. When they first shoved me in here, I panicked and lashed at the sides like a wildcat. I succeeded only in tiring myself. Now several days later, I no longer fight. I am as weak as a mouse, huddled in a corner praying for light.  
  
I am trapped in a vacuum, existing far from the reaches of time and reality. Outside, cities could collapse and comets could crash into the Earth and I wouldn't know about it. I only know of half-whispered voices, shafts of light, and food brought in three times a day.  
  
I don't know why I'm here; I don't know who my captors are. Any attempt to get answers has been met with scorn and derision. "Mutie, Mutie," They call me. I have tried to escape, but I have nothing to escape with(where would I go(where am I(  
  
This captivity has more been a battle of wits with my mind. It has been a struggle to remain sane; my mind creates such gruesome pictures that I wonder if I'll ever get out. The pictures were strongest at the beginning when I was strongest but as I get weaker, so do the pictures. Now it's almost a complete blank which is both comforting and terrifying.  
  
Those images(they were so vivid sometimes. Sometimes I would see myself back in Kenya(I could smell the rare scent of the veld and watch as the sky turned purple as the sun set.  
  
I don't know what happened. I attended the circus, then went and bought a magazine at a 7-11. I start walking back when all of a sudden(my world goes black.  
  
If you are reading this, please help me! I don't know how much longer I can stand! 


	11. Stockholm Syndrome

Stockholm syndrome: n. a phenomenon in which a hostage begins to identify with and grow sympathetic to his or her captor. [After a hostage situation in Stockholm in 1973 where a hostage became romantically attached to one of her captors.]  
  
beam myself towards a light at a long tunnel's end  
  
letters by the sea cry out my name  
  
"His will be done. Farewell."  
  
I could end this now. One word, one flippin' phone call and they'd know all they needed to know.  
  
Why don't I tell them? Why do I protect Creed; he has caused me nothing but misery.  
  
(you're a firestarter, Simone)  
  
Oh yeah, that little snafu. I'm a freak.  
  
It started when I was thirteen; I accidentally set a bunch of newspapers my Papa had left out on fire. Luckily he was there to put it out. I was so scared(Papa was looking at me so queer(he told me I had to Control It. When he was training me, Papa always talked about maintaining absolute control over my body; he took the same approach to my powers. Every day, "focus on this Simone, or focus on that." He'd dunk my head under ice water if I messed up. Sometimes he'd slap me.  
  
Everything revolves around keeping Them in check. I eat a bland diet with very few spices so that They won't have fuel. I exercise and rehearse so often that sometimes I give myself bruises. I incinerate my garbage, so the Fire won't eat me.  
  
It used to be that all it took was small, controlled bits to keep them in check; a burned patch of grass easily covered. But the Fire gets hungrier and hungrier. I have constant lesions on my wrists and arms (thank God my costume covers them up) and my insides feel like they're being consumed.  
  
Look at me; I can't go on much longer. Either my Fire or my Guilt will destroy me. I haven't been able to concentrate or get more than a couple hours' rest; my hands shake uncontrollably. It's a wonder I've managed to stay on the trapeze these past performances!  
  
I'm going to have to come clean sooner or later. I don't know when; I've been putting it off like a trip to the dentist.  
  
De profundis clamo ad te domine.  
  
Definition courtesy of American Heritage Dictionary  
  
Two lines from a poem on Ghostwriter  
  
Next line from The Scarlet Letter 


	12. Conversation

The X-Men met up with Sonja and Misha after the show. It had been a good show and the X-Men had been thoroughly impressed by the stunts performed by the performers. It was kind of different from a Ringling Bros. circus: it was a simple one-ring circus and didn't have animals. It had a more personal feel with the performers constantly interacting with the audience.  
  
It was around nine-thirty when they'd met up with Sonja and Misha. They had changed out of their costumes but their bodies were still coated with sweat. They were smiling.  
  
Sonja began, "Well we've kind of been discussing this and.."  
  
"We've narrowed down who could have done it," Misha interrupted.  
  
Sonja narrowed her eyes. "Thank you very much, Misha, you literally took the words right out of my mouth. Would you mind not doing that again else I be forced to break your arm," She said, giving her sweetest smile. He backed off.  
  
"Well as I was saying," giving a curt glance towards Sonja, "we've narrowed it down some."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Scott. All the X-Men were there except for the Professor.  
  
"Should you go first or should I?" Misha asked.  
  
"I'll do it. Well it had to be someone big enough and strong enough to handle a woman of her size. She was like 5'11 right?" Sonja said.  
  
"Right," Logan muttered. He was beginning to wonder just how helpful these kids were going to be.  
  
"It also had to be someone who had access to an area where they could keep her hidden without anyone knowing. That's where we kind of hit a roadblock," he said.  
  
"None of us have access to anything like that; we live in trailers the size of shoeboxes with at least three other people. There's no way someone could hide anything in there without anyone noticing," Sonja said.  
  
"And don't even ask about equipment sheds or anything related; there are so many people going in and out that someone would notice something," Misha added.  
  
The X-Men concurred with those statements.  
  
"That still doesn't rule out someone knowing about it," Logan said.  
  
"True, but I must be blunt and say we haven't really looked into that; it's considered incredibly rude to accuse a fellow performer without proof," Misha said sheepishly.  
  
"Don't quit your day job, Holmes," Logan muttered.  
  
"The only person I can think of is Simone. She's been acting weird."  
  
"Simone? She's always been weird. I mean her arms are always wrapped in bandages and she eats that horribly bland mush by the gallon. I wouldn't inflict that stuff on a prisoner awaiting his last meal," Sonja said.  
  
"I know but hasn't she acted a little weirder than usual?" Misha asked.  
  
"True. Her hands were shaking so badly it's a wonder she didn't fall of the trapeze during the performance. It's an interesting idea; I'll give you that. Maybe we should check into it," Sonja said.  
  
The X-Men walked away, a little dejected that the kids couldn't have been more help. Basically the information they'd gotten was nothing they hadn't theorized about during the late hours of the night. About the only useful clue was maybe that Simone chick but that could be easily explained; some people are just teched.  
  
Sonja turned to Misha. "So what did you think of them?"  
  
"Eh, they seem okay. Don't think they were too pleased with what we had to give them."  
  
"I imagine they were probably expecting us to start blabbing like some witness in a Perry Mason ep."  
  
Misha had to smile. Sonja was always able to cheer him up. 


	13. Things Get a Little Weirder

Hi, it's Lian. Something really weird happened yesterday and I really need to talk about it.  
  
Well first things first, they found out about Hao and I. If only you could have been a fly on the wall when that happened! I'd never seen them so mad before. You know you're parents are pissed at you when they stop trying to talk to you in English and start screaming at you in Mandarin.  
  
It was wholly ridiculous if you ask me. They were acting like I'd slept with every person in the circus! Hao and I didn't do anything like that except go out for sodas and kiss, which wasn't even on the lips because both of us are too shy!  
  
My sister witnessed the argument. She didn't say anything as it was going on because she knew it would only get them pissed even more though later she told me that she supported me. She said, "One of us was going to break that rule; I just didn't think it was going to be you." I guess she's right. A year ago, I never would have guessed that any guy would like me and I had always been considered the good girl: I didn't rebel the way Sun- Yi did.  
  
Mama and Papa seemed to have cooled off for now. I don't know if they've totally accepted that maybe their fifteen-year-old daughter likes to go out and be kissed by boys. I've emphasized to them that Hao is a good boy who would never do anything like That. He works very hard at his art-has never missed rehearsal except when sick-and does well in school. I think they'll accept him in time.  
  
Well anyway, it was Monday, which is our day off from both school and performances. On Monday, we usually get together and just hang out. We go to the mall and listen to music.  
  
Also Monday is Movie night. Usually Jake, the head technician, gets a movie for us and all the performers, even the adults, watch it together. We like watching circus videos though we don't always. Sometimes we watch old movies like Some Like It Hot or Duck Soup. Never anything R-rated because we have little kids in the audience.  
  
Well yesterday's movie was Alegria by Cirque Du Soleil. Most of us are ambivalent about Cirque Du Soleil; we neither love nor hate it. I like it okay-Dralion was awesome-but there are a few adults with a rabid hatred for it. The Russian Coach hates Cirque Du Soleil with such a fury, bits of saliva fly out whenever he talks about it. He says, "Cirque Du Soleil is the ice maiden of the circus; it has no heart. There's no warmth of humanity in any of their shows." He can rant for hours of basically saying the same things over and over again.  
  
Of the Cirque shows I've seen (La Magie Continue, Nouvelle Experience, Saltimbanco, and Quidam) I liked Dralion the best. I love the way they staged the Chinese Acrobatics; hoop diving, teeterboard, and single hand balancing were the best. Sun-Yi says she likes the single hand balancing and the juggling act the best.  
  
Well anyway, the show was Alegria and it was awesome! The costuming and the lighting were very well done! I loved the White Singer; she looked like an angel in the gauzy white costume. At the end, I was spellbound. All these beautiful images were running through my head. I walked up to Jake and said, "Jake, you have to get me pictures from this show." He's good with anything related to computers and wires.  
  
It was late at night and I still couldn't stop thinking about the show so I took out my coloured pencils and drew a picture of the White Singer. I tried to make her as light and ethereal has I remembered her.  
  
You didn't know I could draw, did you. Well I can. I often draw sketches of my fellow acrobats at work. For ten cents, I'll draw your portrait. Last year, Mr. Henrie was so impressed by my drawings that he had me make pictures to sell to circus-goers. He gave me all the paints and paper I could want. We sold them at ten dollars apiece and I got to keep half. Made over a hundred dollars, which is still sitting in my piggy bank because I haven't found anything worth spending.  
  
After I drew the White Singer, I taped her to my wall and went to sleep. I had the most bizarre dream that night. I dreamed I woke up and saw her (the White Singer) standing at my bedside. She was as real as you or I; I could see her, touch her, and smell her perfume. (I always imagined she wore rose perfume) She started singing but I told her to stop because I was afraid she'd wake up Mom and Dad. She said, "You're wish is my command," and stopped.  
  
That struck as a little odd. All I could think of were those genies in the movie. I wouldn't be surprised if she was one; she seemed to float on air.  
  
We danced for a bit then she said I needed to get back to sleep and handed me a silver necklace. It was an old-fashioned silver necklace, kind of like the ones Victorian women wore. I tucked it into my flannel pocket and went to sleep.  
  
Next morning, I woke up thinking, 'What a weird dream', when I saw the picture I drew of the White Singer lying next to my pillow. That struck me as odd because I could distinctly remember taping her on the wall. I reached into my pocket.  
  
The necklace was there in it's silver beauty. I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of the look on my face. I imagine I went utterly pale; it felt like it. All I could remember was the walls seemed to spin around and around like some insane carnival ride. I lurched dizzily to a chair then sat down.  
  
Once the room stopped spinning, I took a deep breath and began to sort out what happened. It could have been a fluke I told myself, better test it. So I took out my notebook and drew a small three-dimensional cube. Within minutes there was a cube sitting on my kitchen table.  
  
Oh dear lord, I thought. Somehow a vast world opened up. I tried not to panic but approach this problem logically like a scientist would. Okay if I can make things happen by drawing them then what are the limits to my powers? Could I make someone disappear just by drawing them and erasing them? It's really creepy when you think you might have the power to play God.  
  
I erased the cube and hid my drawing stuff. Better not risk it.  
  
Meanwhile miles away.  
  
"New mutant identified. Name: Lian Jiang.Age: 15.Location: Circus fifteen miles out of Bayville.Powers: the ability to manifest images by drawing them." 


	14. Snooping

Simone's trailer was a tiny, cramped little tin can stuffed to the gills with what a single woman, who is also a trapezist, would need. Misha and Sonja felt sorry for having referred to her as "The Duchess" for all these years; she was hardly living "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous." In fact, Sonja wondered how she could even breathe in this trailer: it smelt like burnt rubbish and was so tiny that she and Misha found themselves having to move single file.  
  
It had been very hard to get the key to her trailer. Simone kept it close to her, on a chain around her neck, which she never took off except for performances (she'd lock it in her makeup drawer.) They were forced to, with Lakshmi's help, break into Mr. Henrie's office in order to get Simone's key. Mr. Henrie kept keys to everything pertaining to the Circus Boheme.  
  
They knew they were breaking a sacred trust not to mention probably a few laws. Before they entered, Misha made the sign of the cross as he'd seen his mother do a thousand times. He hoped the Lord would understand why they were doing this and go easy on them.  
  
First they tried looking at some of the stuff on her kitchen table, but it consisted of the same meaningless scraps of paper anyone woman, single or otherwise, would have. They poked and prodded around a bit, finding only receipts, recipes, a sink full of dirty dishes, and some letters she'd written to some guy named Carlos in Canada, none of them interesting.  
  
"Okay," Sonja said, dusting herself off as she stood, "I think we've done enough poking around: now it's time to really snoop." She walked over to one of the drawers and tried to open it. "What the." she muttered. Misha didn't say anything but smiled and pointed at the little gold lock on the door.  
  
Sonja looked around. On every door and drawer was a nice little lock, opened only by a key. Even the door to the shower had a nice little lock. "Jeez.what's with this woman and locks?" she muttered, struggling to open another drawer. "What if she has to go in the middle of the night?"  
  
"Hey Simone was never known for being typical," Misha shrugged.  
  
"Yeah but even your mother has her limits."  
  
Misha nodded ruefully. His mother, besides being known for her massages, was also known for her daffiness. Anyone who went into her trailer to search for something would have a rough time finding it because Irina Bogdanov believed firmly in putting things in the most bizarre of places. Therefore if you were to open the refrigerator, one might find a pair of shoes next to the leftover broccoli.  
  
It's not that she was crazy or stupid-both would mean she couldn't operate and she operates very well-she just saw things a bit differently from everyone else. Misha, Oleg, and Sergey had long learned to tolerate this but it never failed to amuse anyone outside her living quarters.  
  
"Aha," Sonja said, spying the little brass key ring hung next to the door. She grabbed it of the shelf. "Damn it! What is it with this woman!" she shouted. Every key looked exactly alike.  
  
"Why don't you yell a little longer, Sonja? I'm sure a few people in Sweden didn't hear you."  
  
"Sorry. Hey Misha, how do you figure out which key to use?"  
  
"You try them tell you find a match."  
  
"Oh you're huge help." Sonja bent down and began trying the locks. She finally found one that would open but since it contained fairly mundane material she moved on.  
  
Both tried many different keys and many different locks until they finally found what they had been looking for. It was the drawer to the right of the sink next to the silverware. Inside they found scraps of letters written by some guy named Creed. There were all sorts of weird miscellaneous items: an earring missing it's pair, a bandana, a postcard from Africa.  
  
"Hey Misha, come get a look at this," Sonja said in a weird voice. In her hands was a driver's license. The picture had been scratched out but the name was still visible: Ororo Munroe. Height: 5'11.  
  
"Whoa, this is creepy," Misha said. He wanted to leave now and take the license with him; they could be dealing with a homicidal maniac. Instead he kept quiet and tucked the license into his pocket.  
  
Sonja continued riffling through the drawer. She paused when her fingers brushed up against something leather. It was one of those faux leather things anyone could buy at the grocery store with golden letters embossed on the cover: Memory Lane. First few pages were simple enough--birth announcement, wedding announcement, obituary, some photos and letters-but after a few pages a disturbing picture began to emerge.  
  
"Five Injured in Grassfire," Sonja muttered. She turned the page; more articles about fires. Superimposed on these pages were reviews or advertisements for the circus; it was a bit like turning from Entertainment Tonight to Ted Koppel. "Okay that women's sick."  
  
Misha nodded in agreement. They turned the page and continued reading. "Woman Disappears From Home: Circus Suspected in."  
  
They grunted a little as they received the kick. They turned around. Simone was standing there dressed in her practice clothes. Her body was coated with sweat-bits of hair clung to her face-and her dark eyes glowered with a strange gleam that made her appear almost lit within.  
  
"Well what have you been doing in here," She said, giving a strange grin. It was like something from a movie; both Sonja and Misha were expecting her to shoot them. Instead she reached forward and yanked the scrapbook away.  
  
"You really shouldn't be snooping around where you don't belong; curiosity killed the cat after all," She said. Her smile now resembled a snake cornering a mouse. "Now you have five seconds to beat it before I call the cops!" she shouted. Any pretense she'd made at polite behaviour was gone now.  
  
Misha and Sonja barreled out of the tiny trailer, banging their heads on the doorframe as they ran. Simone shouted after them in French. What she said, they didn't know and weren't particularly curious to find out. They ran and ducked behind one of the tool sheds.  
  
"Okay.that's it." Sonja said, panting, "there went my dream of being a secret agent. When Simone came in on us, I just about had a heart attack."  
  
"Ditto," Misha said. "It wasn't a complete lose though; I did get this." He presented the driver's license.  
  
"Good work, Misha. You're better at this spy business than I am," Sonja said, "Have you considered a career with the CIA?"  
  
"Thanks but no."  
  
They sat there for a few minutes, discussing theories and thanking every deity they could think of for their lucky escape, when Lian walked up to them. She was dressed in warm-up clothes with her long black hair tied back in a bun. Her small face was full of question and worry.  
  
"Hey Misha. Was that you Simone was screeching at?" She asked.  
  
"Yeah." He said, sheepishly. "We kind of busted into her trailer."  
  
"Really? Why would you do something that hideously stupid?"  
  
Misha turned beet-red.  
  
"Let me translate. Simone's been acting weird lately so we decided to see if she maybe had something to do with the disappearance of Ms. Munroe. We got the key to her trailer from Mr. Henrie's office and broke in. Unfortunately, she found us," Sonja said.  
  
"Did you get anything good?" "Well we got this," Misha said as he presented the license.  
  
Lian's eyes widened. "Omigod, we have to go to the police with this." She suddenly began to feel very fearful.  
  
"We were thinking of giving it to those outsiders who've been hanging around," Sonja said.  
  
"Them? I don't know; I've never really liked them. My mama says you can't completely trust outsiders and that bald guy creeps me out. It's like he's studying you inside and out," Lian said.  
  
"Lian, you're being silly. They're just people looking for their friend. If one of us ever went missing, you'd want the people involved to be as helpful as possible," said Misha.  
  
Lian had to admit he was right, but she couldn't help but have her reservations about the outsiders. Outsiders always seemed a garish, loud, passionless people. Whenever she went outside the encampment without another circus person, she always felt so small and anonymous and frightened. She berated herself for this: why couldn't she be more like Sun- Yi who was as brave as Catwoman, Supergirl, and Wonder Woman all mixed together?  
  
Suddenly she felt an urge to come clean. She had to talk to someone about what happened Monday and maybe they'd be able to help: they were older than her after all. "Um guys..." She began. She was shaking like an autumn leaf. "I have a confession to make."  
  
"Really, what?" a familiar voice asked. Lian turned around: it was Sun-Yi. It always struck her as funny the way she would insist on looking like a fashion plate even when she was sweating bullets during practice. Today she was wearing her blue Supergirl t-shirt with bright yellow shorts. Her hair was braided into two pigtails tied with red shoelaces. "I mean, if you're going to tell them, you're going to tell me. I am your sister after all," Sun-Yi said.  
  
Lian sighed. Curse her sister for being able to come up with infallible arguments. "Okay, come with me, but please don't laugh," She whispered.  
  
This struck the trio as odd-why would she be afraid of them laughing at her-but they followed anyway. She led them into her family's trailer. The three of them found places at the kitchen table and waited for her to show them whatever she was going to show them.  
  
Lian stepped forward, hiding her art stuff behind her back. "Do you remember Monday Night's Movie?"  
  
"Oh yeah, Alegria. That movie was awesome." Misha said.  
  
"I loved how seamless their Russian Bar act was," said Sonja.  
  
"Well I loved the movie, too. When I got back to the trailer, I couldn't stop playing the music in my head. That Francesca Gagnon has a voice like an angel. Well anyway, I couldn't get the music nor the images out of my head so I drew a picture of the White Singer and here it is," said Lian.  
  
The three looked over the drawing. It was truly a marvel, managing to catch the ghostly and ethereal beauty of the chanteuse. One could almost hear the singer's voice.  
  
But Sun-Yi was not amused. "So what's the point?" she asked. Sun-Yi was not known for her tact.  
  
"I'm getting to that. So I drew it, then went to bed. I had the weirdest dream in which she waltzed with me and gave me a silver necklace. It was the most vivid dream I'd ever had: I could feel her flesh and smell her perfume. Next morning when I woke up, I saw my picture lying next to me. I thought it was strange because I could distinctly remember hanging it on the wall. I was going to tell Sun-Yi all about my wonderful dream when I reached into my pocket and pulled out the necklace. As you can imagine I totally freaked: I thought I was going crazy. I figured just to make sure I'd better test it. So I drew a picture of a cube and it appeared. I erased it and it disappeared. And that is what I have to tell you," Lian said.  
  
There was a pause than laughter. Loud, unrestrained, slightly nervous laughter. "Man," said Misha between gulps of air, "you should use that story next time Mr. Mischke assigns us a creative writing project. That was good."  
  
Lian felt faint. She had prepared herself for every possible response but ridicule. She felt sick. Why were they laughing? Couldn't they see how important this was to her? How she'd worried all day long about it?  
  
"Guys!" she shouted, "this is serious! I made it appear!"  
  
The laughter stopped. "Really?" Sonja asked.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Oh. We're sorry; we thought you were joking." Misha said.  
  
"I wish I was."  
  
"You know what," Sonja said, "I wish we could have used it when we were breaking into Simone's trailer. We could have gotten the key without breaking into Mr. Henrie's office."  
  
"You know what? I think Sonja's onto something. Maybe we could help the outsiders using your artwork. It would be for a noble cause," Misha said.  
  
"I don't know. Seems kind of risky," Lian said.  
  
"I think Misha's on to something. What happened to the White Singer? Maybe we could use her to get more info," said Sun-Yi.  
  
"I don't know. I haven't seen her since Monday."  
  
"Well maybe you have to perform some sort of voodoo ritual to get her to come: Hocus pocus.mucus pucus!" Misha said waving his arms around.  
  
The group brooded for a moment, trying various means of summoning the White Singer.  
  
"I don't know what happened; how could she be here one minute and gone the next," said Lian. She was getting frustrated and starting to wonder if she was going crazy. Misha and Sonja were starting to lose interest.  
  
"Maybe she'll only listen to you. Try asking her to come to you," said Sun-Yi. She was the only one with any optimism left.  
  
"Okay," said Lian. It was worth a shot if nothing else. "White Singer, come here."  
  
There was silence then a tap on the door. Misha opened the door. Standing on the porch was the lovely White Singer. She seemed almost lit from within.  
  
The White Singer smiled. "Excuse me, where may I speak with my master." Her voice had a French accent, which made her voice seem even lovelier.  
  
"Uhh.She's inside," Misha said. Man just when you think you've seen it all, here you are, he thought. "How did you manage to draw in a French accent, Lian?"  
  
Lian scowled and mouthed 'if I knew don't you think I would have told you.'  
  
"Sorry. Don't have kittens."  
  
Now that the White Singer was here, they started discussing ways to use her to break into Simone's trailer (They wanted to fetch the scrapbook.)  
  
"What if we use the cloak of invisibility like in Harry Potter?" Sun-Yi suggested.  
  
"How am I supposed to draw that?"  
  
After much hemming and hawing, they decided to have Lian draw the cloak of invisibility and then draw a copy of the key. Lian drew them then gave them to the White Singer with strict orders about what she was looking for, where she could find it, and which key to use to access it (Sonja's suggestion.)  
  
They waited a tense ten minutes for White Singer to return. They knew she probably wouldn't get caught and even if she did, who would admit to it? Simone was very concerned about her image after all.  
  
Lian worried about whether or not White Singer would obey her: Did she have a free will like her? It was probably a silly thing to worry about given the way she was so gung-ho about helping them. It was more of a question of if she actually had the power to create humans with the minds and personalities like everyone else. It was quite spooky when you thought about it.  
  
The White Singer returned after about ten minutes, carrying the scrapbook under one arm and the cloak under the other. Lian thanked her and sent her on her way. The three sat around the table and began looking through the scrapbook.  
  
Note: XME belongs to Marvel Comics. Alegria and anything related belongs to Cirque Du Soleil. 


	15. Meetings and Greetings

Sun-Yi and Lian woke the next day to find cops crawling over every inch of the encampment. They were going to every home, waking people up, and questioning them. They were also being patted down.  
  
"Mom, what's going on?" asked Sun-Yi.  
  
"I heard about it from your father: Simone has been arrested."  
  
The two girls' eyes widened. Arrested? Who turned her in? How did she get caught? "Maybe she turned herself in," Sun-Yi whispered.  
  
Whatever it was, both girls knew they needed to talk to Misha and Sonja. They hurriedly got dressed and ran out the door. As they stepped outside, they were immediately searched and questioned. Per their mother's instructions, they cooperated with the police and were soon on their way. They didn't, however, mention a word about stealing Simone's scrapbook: they weren't stupid.  
  
Misha was already up, having been awakened and questioned by the police earlier. His mother was rushing to and fro, gathering stuff, and muttering in Russian. The tenants of her trailer, knowing she was obviously in a bad mood, stayed out of her way.  
  
Misha looked tired. "Lian, next time you call the cops, could you request that they come at a more reasonable hour like say, maybe during the lunch hour."  
  
"But I didn't call them!"  
  
"I didn't either," Sun-Yi added.  
  
"Well let's see, I know I didn't-both of you claim you didn't-so who could have called?"  
  
"Let's go catch up with Sonja and ask her," suggested Sun-Yi.  
  
Like Misha, Sonja was already up. Apparently the police searched the Russian trailers first. Despite having been awakened at an unreasonable hour, Sonja still looked prettier than Lian could manage on her best of days. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back into a bun and she was dressed in blue, her favourite colour.  
  
"Hey," she said, giving them a half-hearted wave. "Oh and Misha, thanks for the six 'o' clock wake-up call. I really appreciated it."  
  
"But I didn't," he said.  
  
"I know; I was just kidding. I've known you since practically birth and you wouldn't do anything like this."  
  
The group walked over to the meal tent and grabbed some breakfast. While they were eating they chatted about Simone's arrest.  
  
"Look on the bright side; now she can have that bland stuff she likes for free," Sun-Yi said.  
  
"Sun-Yi!" the group responded.  
  
"Hey, I was raised to focus on the bright side of things."  
  
"What about the scrapbook?" Sonja asked. "How are we going to give it to the police without getting arrested ourselves?"  
  
"Good question." Misha said. "I think they're searching Simone's trailer for it even as we speak."  
  
The group got up from the table and looked out the window. Sure enough, Simone's trailer was surrounded by police tape. Police walked in and out carrying batches of letters and anything that might contain a clue about the disappearance of Ororo Munroe.  
  
"Wow, this is kinda freaky. I never thought an unsolved mystery would happen right in our neighbourhood," said Sun-Yi.  
  
"So where did you hide the stuff, Misha?" Sonja whispered.  
  
"I hid them under one of the tool sheds," he whispered.  
  
The group finished eating than went to the tool shed. It was the farthest, most remote tool shed, and was often used as a hiding place because it was so rarely used. When they were little, Sun-Yi and Lian would hide their spending money, usually little more than spare change, and draw elaborate treasure maps leading to it. However, no one took the bait.  
  
Misha grabbed the scrapbook and slipped it into his backpack. He walked over to Jake. Jake was busy looking at the rigging equipment and checking the lighting equipment to make sure there were no flaws.  
  
"Oh hi Misha. I'm sure you heard the news. I hope Simone's happy. She's got Mr. Henrie and everyone else running around in circles trying to keep this under control. If you're wondering, performances have been canceled until further notice," Jake said.  
  
"I hope we don't have to cancel too many performances; we can't afford to," said Lian.  
  
"So do I."  
  
"Jake I need to borrow your truck. I'm going into town to pick up some supplies just in case this thing doesn't blow over."  
  
"Okay, but if anything happens to it, you're dead meat."  
  
Jake's truck was one of his few prized positions. It was big, lipstick red thing his parents gave him when he graduated from college and was headed for a high-paying career as an engineer. Imagine the look on his parents' faces when he quit his job and ran off to become a part of a circus that was essentially founded by hippies.  
  
Misha hopped into the driver's seat (He was the only one with a license.) Lian, Sonja, and Sun-Yi piled in back. Riding in the cab was for sissies.  
  
Misha drove into town and stopped at the drugstore. Sonja glared at him. "Hey I told Jake I was going to pick up supplies. It'd look kinda suspicious if I came back empty-handed."  
  
The group piled out of the truck and went inside. Most of their shopping was done at drug stores, thrift stores, and consignment stores rather than malls. Malls were expensive because most of the money went into rent and fancy fountains.  
  
The herd fragmented and went to various sections of the store. Sun-Yi went to the cosmetics section. Lian shopped alone, looking at new accessories for her hair.  
  
Finally they made their purchases, a strange mixture of painkillers (Icy Hot and Ibuprofen), makeup, and snacks. Then they piled back into the truck and drove on.  
  
  
  
They arrived at the police station, thirty minutes after driving around. Cops sat around at their desks doing paperwork and taking phone calls. It wasn't like what they'd seen on Law & Order with some burly officer trying to eke a confession out of someone. They guessed the questioning went on in another room.  
  
Sonja glared at Misha as if asking him what do we do next? Truth be told he wasn't sure. This whole thing was hard to get used to: one minute you're just another circus kid, the next you're stumbling on clues related to a kidnapping.  
  
Finally thinking of nothing better to do, he walked up to one of the cops. The cop was buried deep in his paper work.  
  
"Um.Excuse me, sir," Misha said, in the loudest clearest voice he could muster.  
  
"What?" asked the Cop.  
  
"We are friends of Simone Beauvais and we were wondering where she was being held."  
  
"Beauvais? That name does sound familiar. Hold on, while I look her up."  
  
The group waited while the cop typed up something on the computer. "Ah, here it is. She's being held at the Westchester County Jail."  
  
The group left and gathered around the pick-up truck. "So what's this plan of yours, Misha?" asked Sonja.  
  
"I was thinking, maybe we could give it to her and let her deliver it to the police."  
  
"Brilliant. And what makes you think she's going to sing to the cops?"  
  
"Well she did already. Probably her conscience has been getting to her and she feels the need to confess. Mom always did say God has His ways of meting out justice."  
  
"What if she squeals on us?" asked Lian.  
  
"Then will take like grown-ups. I don't know: I haven't thought that far ahead."  
  
Sonja smirked. "Typical guy. Always in the short-term.  
  
The jail wasn't like any jail they'd seen in movies or cartoons. It was actually an attractive red brick building that would have been the perfect office building if it weren't for the bars on the windows. Inside however was a completely different scenario.  
  
They first had to be passed through a metal detector. They were patted down and their package was searched. Finding nothing wrong, the warden told them were Simone's cell was and sent them on their way.  
  
It was dark.dim, save for the little streams of light let in by window. The cells were bare, except for a bed, a filthy sink, and a toilet. Everything was done in full view of the guards; the prisoners couldn't use the bathroom or was their hands without someone looking in. Thirty minutes a day, they were trotted out for their exercise before being shoved back into their cell. This place had obviously been built before the popular clinical style; thick steel doors, fluorescent lighting, and linoleum.  
  
Lian couldn't imagine living in a place like this.so devoid of natural light. It was a harsh environment of concrete, glass, and iron. She had a feeling if she ever drew again, this place would show up.  
  
The prison was mostly used as a warehouse for people awaiting trial. Criminals of all shapes and sizes loomed in their cells. Some were prostitutes, others you could only guessed. Only iron bars separated them from rapists.  
  
Simone's cell was the third one on the left. She sat in her cell, rocking back and forth and humming absentmindedly to herself. It was a mixture of tunes: from the National Anthem, to the Miss America theme, plus some random bits thrown in.  
  
Life most certainly had taken its revenge on her. Though it had been maybe only forty-eight hours since they'd last seen her, it looked like forty years. She was bony.emaciated.clad in a baggy white t-shirt that had been washed so many times, the image was barely visible. Her eyes had circles around them so dark that they resembled bruises. No longer was she the Duchess or the Angel.  
  
Misha, Lian, Sonja, and Sun-Yi all felt sorry for her. Apparently her conscience had meted out a justice that no court, no matter how cruel, could have condoned. They felt sorry for her but knew they must deliver the package to her.  
  
None of them could move. Even Sun-Yi and Sonja, two of the gabbiest people around, stood silently. Misha sighed. It was up to him again.  
  
He stepped forward. "Excuse me," he said, "but I have a present for you, Simone."  
  
She took it in her bony fingers. The group having accomplished their mission went home and spent the rest of the day in a fog.  
  
Next morning, they were as shocked as anybody to hear the news. Sometime in the night, Simone had managed to hang herself in her cell, without any of the guards noticing. It was an obvious suicide: no one could have gotten in her cell without anyone noticing. The suicide not she'd clutched in one hand made mention of her conscience but mostly was a collection of quotes from various sources and a request that she be laid to rest next to her father in heaven.  
  
"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor  
  
Shall be lifted---nevermore!" Final quote from "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.  
  
As it was the custom, the police carefully cleaned out the cell and that's when they found the scrapbook. The scrapbook was a smoking gun if they'd ever saw one. Finally they had something they could use.  
  
After they found out who had delivered the package, the circus grounds were even more crawling with police. Most of the performers were fed up with being questioned and patted down as though they were criminals, so they kept their doors locked and refused to answer the police calls.  
  
Search dogs were brought in to sniff around but there was no trace of any scent within the encampment. Other than personal effects, nothing was found in Simone's trailer. The only scent picked up was a faint scent along the dirt road leading out into the country. Police dogs followed it for several miles before the trail finally turned cold. Unbeknownst to them, Logan had already followed the same course and come across nothing.  
  
For the X-Men this was a breath of fresh air. After all those dead ends, they finally had something. They returned to the encampment hoping to find out more, but unfortunately the mood there was that of resentment. Mr. Henrie and the rest of the staff were too busy running around fielding reporters and police officers to offer any assistance and most of the performers either ignored them all together or were outright hostile. One of them slammed a door in their faces and said, "Haven't you done enough already!" Another said, simply enough, "Get the Hell of my property!"  
  
Lian and Sun-Yi watched the chaos from inside their trailer. Their parents and the rest of the staff were in the middle of a meeting to discuss how they could contain the fall-out from the latest revelations. Before they had left, her parents told Lian to look after Sun-Yi and not to leave the trailer.  
  
Both Lian and Sun-Yi were profoundly grateful that everyone was rallying behind one another. The whole circus knew that her, Sun-Yi, Sonja, and Misha had delivered the package but no one cared. The circus was far more important than that.  
  
Things between Lian and Sun-Yi had been strained ever since the visit to the jail. Sun-Yi could barely look her sister in the eye anymore and Lian couldn't blame her. Ever since she discovered her powers, she no longer recognized the person staring at her in the mirror.  
  
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Lian went to the door. It was them again, those bothersome teens and that bald guy. Lian felt disgust well up inside her. Why did they insist on visiting? Hadn't they caused enough trouble?  
  
But Lian had been raised to be polite and proper in even the most extreme of circumstances. So instead of screaming out every insult she could think of, she smiled and opened the door to greet her unwanted visitors.  
  
"Hello, how may I help you," she said in perfect Mandarin.  
  
I know you understand English, Lian.   
  
Lian sat up, startled. Who said, that? The voice sounded as though it were inside her head. Great, she thought, not only have I started a life of crime, but I'm going crazy as well. She searched the ground of eyes gathered at her stoop. Her eyes immediately fell on the blue eyes of that creepy bald guy. He was staring at her intently as though taking her apart, piece-by-piece.  
  
Lian felt sick. Just who were these people? They moved so perfectly in sync with one another, it was like they were warriors. She could almost imagine them in armour.  
  
"Um.Sorry.got to run," she blurted out, slamming the door behind her. She locked it as tight as she could then collapsed on the bed, panting.  
  
Sun-Yi stared at her, wide-eyed. "What just happened?"  
  
"I don't know and I really don't want to find out. They creep the hell out of me."  
  
"If you're so concerned about them, why don't you do a little spy work?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Mom always told to know your enemy better than you know yourself."  
  
"Sun-Yi, that's the best idea you've had all day."  
  
The two girls summoned the White Singer, gave her the cloak of invisibility, then ordered her to follow that group around and get information on them. Unfortunately they didn't know about Logan's sense of smell.  
  
He sniffed. "There's someone following us," he muttered. The Professor focused his telepathic power and quickly found the White Singer. Using his telekinesis, he lifted the cloak of invisibility from the singer's head, revealing her to the fellow X-Men.  
  
She was quite remarkable. It wasn't so much her bizarre appearance that made her remarkable, but her realness. Her white flesh had the same warmth and texture of any human.  
  
The creature stood for a few moments staring at the Professor with her sapphire eyes. She didn't blink. Her chest heaved in and out and her breath came in flutters, the sure mark of terror. After a few minutes, she took off. The White Singer ran to Lian's trailer and banged on the door until she was let in.  
  
Sometime while White Singer had been out spying, Lian had simply passed out. She had been talking about Ororo Munroe when she let out a gasp and drooped to the floor. It wasn't a good hard "Thud" faint like in soap operas, more like she'd just wilted.  
  
Of course Sun-Yi panicked. Her parents had a tendency to always assume the worse and how the hell was she going to explain this to them, especially when there was no one who could back up her story.  
  
Okay, what would Nancy Drew do, she thought. Sun-Yi loved Nancy Drew books, which was yet another thing her parents disapproved of (They called them "trash literature.) It didn't matter that Nancy Drew wasn't Shakespeare: Nancy Drew was just as smart and resourceful as any guy detective.  
  
Then she remembered: her mom and dad kept an extensive first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Maybe they'd have smelling salts or something like that. She scrambled to the bathroom. She searched the first aid kit, tossing around various bandages and the like, when she heard a knock at the door.  
  
It was White Singer, panicked and frightened. Sun-Yi saw she was without the cloak and immediately jumped to conclusions. "Let me guess, A) they found you out, B) they figured you out, and C) they'll be stopping by soon."  
  
White Singer could do nothing but nod ruefully. "Crap! What am I going to do now?" Sun-Yi told White Singer to go back to where she came from, rationalizing that it was what your master would have wanted. She then went and dragged Lian onto the bed she shared with her and drew the purple curtain, which was the only barrier between their room and the rest of the trailer. She dug around in the first aid kit until she found the smelling salts. "Aha!" she shouted. She marched over to Lian and stuck the smelling salts under her nose. Sun-Yi was just feeling triumphant, having handled all this on her own when there was a knock at the door.  
  
Her face sank. "Oh crud," she said. She already had an inkling who was at the door and she really wasn't in the mood to deal with them. But still she couldn't keep her guests waiting. Wouldn't be proper of a hostess.  
  
She plastered her most June-Cleaver-Martha-Stewart-smile on her face. She opened the door and greeted them with such incredible sugar-sweetness that she felt herself cringe inwardly. "Oh hi, welcome to the Jiang residence. Please come in and make yourself at home. I must apologize for the small quarters: we're not the Rockefellers."  
  
Good lord, Sun-Yi thought, I'm being perky. Crikey, did I just laugh at nothing. As soon as these people leave, I will bang my head against the wall.  
  
"It's okay, Sun-Yi. I'll handle this," said Lian, who had just woken up. Sun-Yi sighed and mouthed "Thank you."  
  
Lian looked at the assembled crowd. "I guess you already figured out everything, huh."  
  
"Yes Lian. In fact I was hoping to talk to you," said the Professor.  
  
"Oh really," She said. "You forced us to cancel several of our shows just to talk to me. Look, next time you want to talk, send a postcard and I'll be more than happy to accommodate you."  
  
Lian smiled. It wasn't like her to say anything like that, but those outsiders rankled her in such a way. She looked up, feeling triumphant. The Professor stared back at her. Oh my god, she thought, the man is dead serious. "All right, we can chat but Sun-Yi stays," she said. That way if anything happened, there would be a witness. "Don't worry; Sun-Yi may like to talk, but she can keep a secret."  
  
The Professor explained everything to her. The history of their organization, who was involved, everything. The more Lian listened, the more cross she felt. Why would she want to leave the only life she's ever known to join some military group? She didn't want to learn how to use her powers: she just wanted them to go away so she could go back to just plain drawing. That probably wasn't likely to happen, though. Once cursed, always cursed. "I don't know if I really want to join your group. I have my entire life here; I love what I do in the circus and want to keep doing it as long as I can. I guess I should learn to control my powers, because as much as I may pray, they're not going to go away. Couldn't I like stay with you for a few weeks after the tour wraps up?"  
  
"I would have to talk this over with your parents, Lian," said the Professor. Lian choked. Her parents? Did this man realize just what he was dealing with? Her mind began to fill with images of gloom and doom. She could almost hear them screaming at her in Mandarin, denouncing her as part of the family, and throwing her out. It was a prospect too scary to comprehend. Oh well, worse comes to worse, she could always count on her friends. She smiled as she remembered what Sonja had told her, "The fact that you have powers doesn't change what a really cool person you are."  
  
They were going to find out anyway. Better to have the Professor explain it. "Okay," she said, "you can talk to them, but you're going to have to wait: they're in the middle of a meeting."  
  
The Professor left. Now she was alone in her trailer with the outsi. no the X-Men. "Um.hi," she said. Lian was never very good at beginning a conversation. "Look we kind of got off on the wrong foot so why don't we start over. My name's Lian and this is my sister Sun-Yi."  
  
"Hi," the group responded.  
  
"We saw your show, Sunday. We all enjoyed it," said Scott.  
  
"How do you do that stuff?" Evan asked. "Man, that looks like it hurts."  
  
"Well it does," Lian admitted, "but we love what we do. Mama says you have to walk on pins and needles for what you love. Look why don't we call a truce. I was wrong to just assume outsiders didn't know anything."  
  
"Damn straight," Logan muttered.  
  
Sun-Yi, who had been sitting quietly for the past couple minutes (a rare feat), stood up. Her small face lined with determination, she said, "We're willing to tell you everything now. Don't know how much it could help, but it couldn't hurt."  
  
The two girls told them what they knew. The dry butcher selling tickets had seen her before the show, as did the butcher selling popcorn. Neither of them paid to much attention because she was just another customer going to see the show. Matsya said he saw her at the beginning when they were clowning around with the audience. Later after the show, a dry butcher said she purchased a couple programs from him. He was the last circus person to see her. The girls explained about Sonja and Misha searching Simone's trailer and about later using White Singer to grab her scrapbook. Then later visiting Simone in prison.  
  
"She turned herself in," murmured Jean, "but no one got anything from her."  
  
"The more I think about it, the more I think she had nothing to do with your friend's disappearance," said Lian.  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Evan. Right now he hated Simone more than anything for keeping quiet about her involvement.  
  
"It's weird, but I don't think she did it. She definitely had more than a passing knowledge of what happened, but I think that's about it as to her involvement. Sonja and Misha found all these threatening letters from this guy named Creed in her trailer. They say the letters threatened to slit her throat in the middle of the night and all sorts of horrible things," said Lian. She could hear Logan muttering various epithets under his breath and growling. "Maybe I should go fetch them; they're in this as deep as I am."  
  
She went and fetched Sonja and Misha. Before letting them into her trailer, she filled them in on everything.  
  
One of the things that amazed Scott was how ordinary Lian and her friends looked out of costume. Even though they could do tricks that would make Sir Isaac Newton cream himself, they looked no different from any other teenager. Misha was of average height with brown hair and eyes. Sonja had a build that was considered a classic flyer build: she was long and lean with long, spindly legs. She had blond air and bright blue eyes and this bravado about her, almost like a movie star.  
  
"Hey, so this is the group you were talking about," said Sonja. "They look like quite a bunch."  
  
"Guys, this is Sonja and Misha. Sonja and Misha, those are the X-Men," said Lian. She went through and introduced the members. "If you're wondering, I've already gone through and told them everything." 


	16. Captive II

I'm going to die soon. There's no way around it: I'm will either die at my hands or at the hands of fate. I can't exist like this: deprived of all light and sound. I need fresh air. I haven't been able to bathe or brush my teeth for days. All I hear is murmured voices.I can't make out what they are saying. I am still trying to figure out a motive. Why go to the trouble of kidnapping me to leave me to waste away in a closet? There is a darker motive here and something tells me I won't live to find out what it is.  
  
There are three possible outcomes right now. One is that my captors kill me, two I simply wilt away and die, and three I die by my own hands. Right now I lean towards option three. At least that way I deprive whatever sick fiend abducted me of the pleasure.  
  
Left alone in this closet, I have plenty of time to think. I gave up fighting my psyche days ago. I just give in to the crazy hallucinations and dreams my mind cooks up. They become so vivid that sometimes I can't tell if I'm awake or not. Sleep doesn't come easy.  
  
I've been thinking a lot about Africa lately. I can still remember the way the sun felt in the middle of the day and that smell. There isn't a place in the world that smells like the veldt. I remember bright-coloured fabrics, dark-skinned children whose skinny legs were covered with bug bites, and I remember the smell of bread. Despite the unpleasantness that arose, I do remember some nice people. There was Hadiya, the old woman who served as my handmaiden, with her dark eyes and bright smile. It was she whom helped me escape, when the role of goddess began to haunt me.  
  
I haven't seen Hadiya since that fateful night. I do not know what happened to her when they found me gone. I suppose I could search for her, but I don't know where she is. My tribe is a nomadic one and they have probably moved since then. Besides, Hadiya had told me not to ever think of her or contact her. I don't want to jeopardize her safety, so I can only hope she is alive and well.  
  
When I get tired of getting lost in my thoughts, I recite songs and poems and any thing I can think of off the top of my head. It's so comforting hearing a voice, even if it is my own. I stretch and exercise best I can in that tiny space. I don't want to grow my limbs to grow fallow. I want to be ready should my predictions prove wrong and I get my freedom back.  
  
When I can think of nothing else to do, I sit back in my dark hole and listen to what goes on around me. I hear whispers all around me. Their voices are deep and full of menace. I can only guess what they are saying. There are two, maybe three men. I know there is one woman amongst them: I hear her arguing with the other men and I see a brown-haired woman give me my meals every day.  
  
Yesterday, the strangest thing happened. It was around noon and I was expecting lunch when all of a sudden the door swung wide open. I nearly fell over because I had been leaning against the door. I blinked and squinted into the bright light.  
  
Instead of the woman with the soft brown hair, it was a man with dirty blond hair. His face was scrunched deep into a scowl. His eyes were barely visible beneath those folds of flesh. He was a tall man, sturdily built with shoulders like a football player. His hands were clenched into fists and hung at his sides. He looked like a lion ready to pounce.  
  
What I remember the most was the look in his eyes. Behind those eyes, lurked the mind of a madman. They had such a horrible look of pure rage in them. They were so angry. I have no idea why he would be so mad at me; a couple weeks ago, we were complete strangers. Why was he so mad at me?  
  
We stared at each other for the longest time: his face hardened in rage, mine trying to maintain the "Maasai Warrior" look. I know he wanted to kill me. He not only wanted to kill me, he wanted to destroy me, eviscerate me, and make it so I never existed. I braced myself for death. If I were to die at his hands, I wanted my face to remain stoic to deny him the pleasure of my screams.  
  
Instead he simply stuffed me back into the closet and walked away, leaving me even more irritated. He was playing games with me, dangling the prospect of death. Sooner or later something had to give though. Both of us knew I wasn't going to go out in the bright sun again. 


	17. Changes

Hi it's Lian again. Things have been a bit crazy the past couple of days, so I will try to clear things up.  
  
If Simone was looking to cause trouble she succeeded: her suicide has caused even more reporters to descend on our area. You can't lift up your head without banging a microphone. Sun-Yi and I've been trying to deal with it the best we can.  
  
Mr. Xavier talked to my parents. Sun-Yi and I watched it through the window. Sonja tried to dissuade us from spying, saying we'd only find out things we didn't need to know, but neither of us could turn away. Sun-Yi said she was dying to know if I was going to be sent to an orphanage.  
  
There was lots of shouting.cries in Mandarin Chinese. I couldn't follow all of it; I'm afraid I'm not as fluent as I used to be. Papa was yelling loudest of all, calling Mr. Xavier a long list of things I can't mention for saying his beautiful obedient daughter was a mutant. Mama did nothing but cry and shout some of the same things. Throughout it all, Mr. Xavier remained as calm as a cucumber. He gave my parents his number and left.  
  
There hasn't been much talk since Mr. Xavier's visit. Mama and Papa always look so sad and stare at me as though I were dying. They whisper to each other constantly in Mandarin. Their whispers sound like ghostly wisps of smoke.like poison. I haven't drawn any pictures: I've been too afraid.  
  
Right now Sun-Yi, Misha, and Sonja have been the only ones still treat me the same. The trouble with living in such close quarters is that if anything happens, everyone immediately knows, so of course everyone knows I'm a mutant. I think they feel sorry for me; they still act as though everything is normal, but their every glance as kind of a pained look.  
  
I have currently been planning for if worse came to worse and my parents went berserk. Sun-Yi has said if I run, she runs too. I don't want her to come with me, but I don't know if I can talk her out of it: she is so fearsome stubborn.  
  
Right now all anyone can talk about is the crime. That's what we refer to the abduction of Miss Munroe as. A lot of people around here are resentful of the fact that she's forced us to cancel several shows, cost the life of one of our headliners, and caused the media to descend on us like a pack of vultures. It makes me mad that people talk like that: I'm sure if you asked Miss Munroe, she'd much rather not be the subject of so much attention.  
  
In school and work, it's about all anyone can talk about. Holding practice is about next to impossible with all those reporters crawling around, but we try to get a little in everyday. At school, a group of reporters came barreling in during math class. Mr. Sawyer, the math teacher, got so mad that he chased the reporters out of the room, cursing at them as they ran. We were all surprised because Mr. Sawyer had always been, as Mr. Mischke put it, a milquetoast kind of guy but Mr. Sawyer regarded school almost like church: a place were people come to learn that shouldn't be violated. English class was hard because all we wanted to talk about was the mystery. Everyone is pretty peeved that Sun-Yi, Misha, Sonja, and I got involved without informing anyone but what were we supposed to do? Go ask our parents if we had permission to go and break into someone's house.  
  
Finally, Mr. Mischke decided that we weren't going to get much done and declared a free-write. Everybody just opened their notebooks and started scribbling. We didn't care about what we were writing because no one but ourselves were going to read them.  
  
I don't know if I really remember what I did write; I just started scribbling whatever came to mind. I thought about all the stuff my friends and I had gone through together. I thought about Miss Munroe, the Professor and his students, I thought about Hao, I worried about Sun-Yi, and I thought about Simone. How horrible it must be to die in such an undignified manner. Some may call suicide a dignified death but I never thought it so. You die alone, trapped with all those negative feelings you may carry with you. At least with natural causes you die with family and friends.  
  
I wonder what Simone was thinking in those last moments. I've thought about it long and hard and I don't really think she had anything to do with Ms. Munroe. It just seems too weird even for Simone.  
  
Mr. Henrie's been pretty busy lately. He needs to work out funeral arrangements for Simone. She said repeatedly that she wanted to be buried next to her father in Canada and apparently you have to work out certain arrangements to ship a body. I think Mr. Henrie feels kind of guilty that he didn't try to get Simone some help. He seems so weary.  
  
It seems almost natural that Simone would die this way. Simone always seemed to be keeping the wires stretched very tight, as one of tech crew would say. She always seemed tensed up, vigilant for any unforeseen disaster that might be lurking. She never once cracked a smile or laughed at any joke. She worked her body clean to the bone; even Papa was shocked at how many hours she practiced.  
  
I still feel a certain responsibility to Mr. Xavier's kids. The more I get to know them, the more important it seems that I find Ms. Munroe, but truth be told, I am beat. I've thought of this each and every way I can, but I can't think of anything past Simone. I know with each passing day the likelihood of finding Ms. Munroe alive decreases and I fear it is my fault: I should have helped from the beginning.  
  
I don't know; maybe I should go to bed. I always think better after a good night's sleep. 


End file.
